Morning light filtered through the villa's bay windows, cutting pale rectangles across the tempered glass table where dozens of folders were piled up: profiles of Sector 4 merchants, profitability curves, distribution maps traced in red and blue.
The smell of cold coffee had been lingering in the room for three hours.
Nash sat at the end of the table, motionless, slowly spinning a pen between his fingers.
Across from him, Dahlia was going through her report.
"The Sector 4 profiles are validated at ninety-two percent. Three families are still reluctant, but we can tip them with a first-quarter rent exemption. As for the clandestine transporters…" she tapped a sheet, "I've renegotiated the routes with the Castilla brothers. They're willing to double the medicine deliveries if we cover the losses in case of a police check."
